Cobblecrest Chronicles

  The Trickster’s Deception The last of the honey mead clung to the bottom of Baelen’s mug, a sweet, sticky memory of a song just ended. Here in the Rusty Cauldron, warmth was a currency as valuable as coin. It radiated from the great stone hearth, from the press of bodies, from the hearty laughter of Tobias Grumblefoot, the halfling proprietor who seemed to be in three places at once. Baelen Rockseeker, son of Thrain, of the Maerthwatch clan, allowed himself a rare, shallow breath of contentment. The air, thick with the scent of rosemary, applewood, and damp wool, was a far cry from the clean, cold stone and metallic tang of the forges he called home, but it had its own kind of strength. A community’s strength. Across the table, Anya Meadowbrook’s nimble fingers were a blur, weaving a loose thread on her worn leather cuff into an intricate cat’s cradle. Her eyes, sharp and dark, missed nothing: the way the bard favored his left leg, the slight tremble in the serving girl’s hand, t...

 A Light for the Lost  The rain came in sheets, a relentless assault against the timber and shutters of the Rusty Cauldron. Each peal of thunder was a giant’s hammer-fall on a celestial anvil, rattling the tankards on the tables and making the fire in the great central hearth hiss and spit. Inside, the tavern was a bubble of warmth and light against the Tarsakh storm, but the atmosphere was as heavy and charged as the air outside. The usual boisterous cheer was gone, replaced by a low murmur of hushed conversations and the nervous clink of pottery on wood. Jarek Tamsen sat with his back to the wall, a habit he couldn’t break. His wild, dark hair was tied back, and his hazel eyes, so accustomed to the deep shadows of the Chondalwood, missed nothing in the flickering lamplight. He felt penned in, the press of bodies and the low ceiling a constant weight on his shoulders. Across from him, Myrakka Emberheart was a bastion of calm. Her golden dragonborn scales caught the firelight,...

  Korr's Ring The scent of lavender and rosemary, usually a comfort in the Shrine of the Harvest Moon, felt heavy, almost cloying, in the hushed room. Candles, their flames small and steady, cast flickering light upon the cot where Brindle Eamond lay, his breaths shallow and rattling. Wax dripped in slow, melancholic tears beside him. Sister Eliza, her face a mask of serene gravity, stood by the far wall, her hands clasped tightly. Her gaze was fixed on the Blessed Grain Stone tucked beneath the dying man’s narrow bed, its faint warmth a silent testament to the truths being coaxed from him. Above, doves rustled in the rafters, their soft coos a stark contrast to the rhythmic, unrelenting spatter of rain on the stone walkway outside. Mirielle Vancroft watched Brindle, her dark eyes filled with a mixture of scholarly curiosity and empathy. The man was a thread, frayed and about to snap, but a thread that might lead to answers Eleanor so desperately sought. Beside her, Hawke Swiftwate...